like angry bees
smoked from their hives,
they swarm
and one at last pulls over
to our waving arms.
it's cramped,it's dirty and smells of fish
or lamb,
and the tempered glass
that separates
us is smeared
with either ketchup or blood,
but it will
get us there in record
time as we fly down
Broadway in the bike lane.
we hang on to
the straps and each other,
as we pray, dear lord,
get us to our seven hundred
dollar room.
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